


café au vin

by mortifyingideal



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gift Giving, M/M, Sentimental Old Fools, Valentine's Day Fluff, every me loves every you, into the multimortiverse, just trust me okay, psssst i'm not actually sorry, sorry about the menu puns, you have to listen to It's All Been Done by the Barenaked Ladies, your honour they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/pseuds/mortifyingideal
Summary: “I’ve decided… that you’re going to decide.”“Ohcome on, Aziraphale.”“No, no. This ismyValentine’s Day gift, and formyValentine’s Day gift I wantyouto pick your favourite thing on the menu."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 121





	café au vin

“Any century now, angel,” Crowley sang under his breath, swirling the last dregs of the wine in his glass. The wine glass had been graciously providing him with those same last dregs for almost two hours now, as Aziraphale still hadn’t put down the bloody menu. He got the same annoyed huff in response from across the table that he’d been getting each time he attempted to gently chivvy the angel along.

“Really, my dear, I can hardly be held accountable for my pacing when _this_ is what I have to choose from,” Aziraphale said, shaking the phone book sized menu at him. 

“Oh, _well,_ my apologies,” Crowley snorted, finishing off the wine, “I’ll make sure to be less generous with the options next time.”

They both flushed, considering the very promising implications of _next time._ Aziraphale’s hand covered Crowley’s on top of the table, squeezing gently.

“You know that’s not what I meant, love. I’m very, _very_ grateful, of course. I only feel a little _spoiled._ There’s so much here that looks simply delectable, I’m really not sure where to begin.”

Crowley grumbled, but allowed the little squirm of pleasure inside him to carry his head over Aziraphale’s shoulder, inspecting his handiwork thoroughly before he pointed down at one of the items on the open page.

“What about that one? Reckon it’ll be quite sweet, if that’s what you’re in the mood for. Light, fluffy—”

“With just a hint of bite, yes, I was thinking that myself. Do you not suppose I should pick something meatier, though?”

Crowley let his head loll back, reminding himself he had all the time in the world. He could, and would, make more if necessary. The angel could be as finicky as he liked, only there were limits to a demon’s patience.

“I think you should choose whatever looks best to you. Or just flip to a random page, close your eyes and point. Light, fluffy, meaty, heavy— six and two threes, love.”

Aziraphale gasped, affronted, and hugged the menu book to his chest in a protective manner that Crowley wasn't even remotely jealous about because that would be completely _barmy._

“I know for a fact you don't believe that,” he sniffed, laying it back on the table primly. “You worked too hard on this to be so blasé, you old serpent. Anyway, I’ve decided.”

“Glory glory halle-bastard-lujah,” Crowley muttered.

“I’ve decided… that you’re going to decide.”

“Oh _come on,_ Aziraphale.”

“No, no. This is _my_ Valentine’s Day gift, and for _my_ Valentine’s Day gift I want _you_ to pick your favourite thing on the menu.”

What followed this pronouncement was a very brief and ridiculous glimpse of what the battle would have looked like were they forced to fight one another at Armageddon, solely performed via glances and minute twitches of their noses. After a particularly strong flare of the nostril from Aziraphale, Crowley conceded with an overly dramatic sigh.

“Page forty-three,” he said, not even having to look at the menu, “second column, five down.”

Aziraphale eagerly flipped to the correct section, running his finger down the page to locate Crowley’s choice. Then, his face growing softer with every word, he started to read the entry aloud as Crowley considered whether spontaneous combustion would actually do anything to harm a demon.

“ _Low Steaks..._ hold on, _steaks?_ Surely it should be—oh, a _pun,_ very good my darling, there’s that _sparkling_ wit—now let’s see, _gentle, with hints of humanity, friendship, and long-unspoken love brought to the fore by age. Soaked in coffee and wine—_ well, naturally, of course— _and a lingering warmth to round off this option. One to savour over ten to twelve months.”_

“S’a bit boring, I know,” Crowley groused, still unused to the prickly feeling that came with freely being able to express what one wanted, “the spies one sounds much more exciting, and there’s a whole host of really filthy ones in the back, sticky sweet things that’ll leave a mark, but I just thought…” 

“There's always next time. For now, this sounds perfect,” Aziraphale said, finally setting the universal menu to one side. “Do I need to do anything to prepare? Will our corporations be, ah, _inconvenienced?”_

“Nah,” Crowley said, cracking his knuckles, “it’ll be like we were never even gone.”

He clicked.

* * *

Anthony J. Crowley, in-demand sommelier and forty-nine year old human, blinked. 

“I, uh... sorry, angel, lost my train of thought. What was I saying?”

Aziraphale Fell, boutique coffee-shop-cum-bookshop owner and fifty-two year old human, rolled his eyes.

“Yes, most unlike you to lose yourself in the middle of one of your little rambles. You were _saying,_ I believe, something along the lines of the greetings card industry being an utter farce and declaring war on Valentine’s Day, and a pox on all those who celebrate it, and so on and so forth. I could be mistaken, though, as I may have gotten confused with your rant from last year. And the year before that. And the year before _that,_ and—”

“Yes, alright, thanks. Got it,” Crowley muttered, pouring another glass for them both.

“Well…” Aziraphale looked down into his wine as though it had personally affronted him, “maybe you just need to— what’s the expression? _Get back out there?_ Find someone worth spending this miserable day with?”

Crowley made a noise somewhere between considering and panicked. Was he now obligated to spill his guts all over Aziraphale’s little floral hook rug from the 70s? Finally tell him that, actually, there _was_ nobody else worth spending it with other than the very person he was currently sat across from, and that this was why he hadn’t been _back out there_ in the last decade? Was that allowed? Was he _ready?_ Wouldn't Aziraphale want some big declaration? The angel _loved_ a fuss. Shouldn't there be flowers? Chocolates? How the hell was Crowley meant to arrange a truckload of woo at this late hour?

“You— you could set yourself a little goal!” Aziraphale continued, with an enthusiasm that didn't exactly ring true to Crowley's ears, but he may have been projecting on that front. “We, ah, both could. Perhaps by next year... yes, _yes,_ that sounds like a plan, doesn’t it? A little kick up the rear for both of us, No man left behind, and all that..."

Aziraphale trailed off with a weak chuckle, but quickly found some of that hidden, firm resolve that had always impressed Crowley so much when he brought it out. He put his wine glass to one side and turned to Crowley, hand outstretched.

"How does that sound? By next Valentine’s Day, we’ll be settled, and happy, and have a reason to purchase those hideous, trite greetings cards. What do you say?”

Crowley could _definitely_ arrange a truckload of woo by then. Maybe, with a whole year to get his shit together, he wouldn't even need the truck. Maybe he would just be able to out-and-out _tell_ Aziraphale how he felt. How he'd always felt.

Crowley reached over, grinning, and shook his best friend’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> and thus mort became the de facto creator of all AUs ever aka welcome to the multimortiverseTM TM TM will expect the royalties soon ta
> 
> happy valentines day, you lovely people. or, if you don't care to celebrate, happy captain cook death at the hands of the native hawaiians day xxxx


End file.
